


Flat of the Blade

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blackmail, Breathplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Rape Roleplay, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6539077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celegorm has many ways of winning his brother's resistance. Curufin only waits for him to employ them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flat of the Blade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegreatpumpkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/gifts).



> Many thanks to amyfortuna for betaing!

The storage room behind the forge is not a narrow room by any means. Crates are stacked against the walls in neat columns, and bags are strewn over them or piled up according to Fëanáro's rigid arrangement of his working supplies, but there is ample space in the centre of the room, all of it well-lit by three big lamps overhead. 

Tyelcormo, who has had the mind of a hunter ever since he was old enough to shoot a bow, knows how to trap his prey.

“We came to an agreement before we entered into our contest, did we not, little brother?” he says. His voice is smooth, pleasantly husky, but he holds Curufinwë in an unforgiving grip, squeezing him to his chest with one arm while he tickles his lips and chin with his index finger. 

Even as an adult, Curufinwë hasn't lost the gracefulness that made him so attractive to Tyelcormo as a youth. Though taut and strong as any other smith's, his body is still lean, sinewy, seemingly frail. He is the shortest of his brothers, too, and looks particularly small next to Tyelcormo's height and build. 

His figure, his voice, his mannerisms are dearer to Tyelcormo than anything else.

Curufinwë stares up at him, his eyebrows drawn together, his dearly beloved faced twisted in a pout. “But you –”

Tyelcormo tut-tuts, hooking his thumb on Curufinwë's lower lip and pulling it down. “I outfoxed you, little brother, and I will claim what is my due.”

Curufinwë attempts to pull his mouth away, but Tyelcormo moves his thumb up and slips it inside his mouth just before Curufinwë can close it. Curufinwë grazes his brother's thumb with his teeth, but when Tyelcormo slips it fully in he meets it with his tongue. 

Tyelcormo smirks.

“Will you do what you swore you would? Or...do you want me to tell father you had one of his apprentices finish the preparations on the metals he needed that one time, seven months ago?” he murmurs, sweetly venomous, dragging his thumb out of Curufinwë's mouth and over his chin. “Remember why that was? Because you were too busy trying to seduce your older brother to remember your task.”

The words are as effective as any of his shots are in the wild: Curufinwë thrashes in his hold, almost managing to break free, his eyes at once filling with outrage. “You wouldn't dare!” he screams.

“Keep your voice down, my love,” Tyelcormo says, still irritatingly calm. “Unless you want everybody to know how you hunger for your older brother's...attentions.”

Curufinwë's gaze flickers to the door behind Tyelcormo, as if it should open at that very moment. There's nobody in the smithy, and he reminds himself that his father is away, and there's no chance he would come back, and that even if he did he would have no reason to enter the storage room behind the forge. But if he did –...

“Shall I tell Father that you betrayed his trust, lied to him, and all to gratify your shameful lust?”

Curufinwë glowers up at Tyelcormo, but guilt creeps into his mind, and into his eyes, making his face twist in an altogether different expression from coy, half-hearted reluctance. He turns his head from side to side twice. 

“I thought so. Now do what you're supposed to do. Undress.”

“The forge is still going -”

“We won't take too long, I promise.”

Tyelcormo squeezes him one last time before letting him go and stepping away from him. After a last moment of hesitation, Curufinwë reaches behind his back to undo the string of his leather apron, slips it off his shoulders and tosses it on a nearby crate. His hands start working on the buttons which keep his shirt closed at the neck, tight-fitting as is best-suited for work in the forge. He unfastens the three one by one, his slowness prompted by a desire to irk Tyelcormo despite his acquiescence.

Tyelcormo enjoys the show all the same. He ogles every little bit of skin which is revealed, accompanying the lewd rapaciousness of his gaze with murmurs of appreciation and encouragement that he knows will fluster Curufinwë. And arouse him, as proven by the way his tight-fitting pants tent at the crotch. He rests his left hand on his hip and slides his right between his legs, stroking himself.

Curufinwë finally grabs the hem of his shirt and slips it over his head, letting it fall to the floor. His cotton undershirt sticks to his skin with sweat, but he peels it up and away from his chest, dropping it on top of his shirt. Then he stops. 

“I want you completely naked.”

“But –”

“Atarincë,” Tyelcormo coos, smiling an infuriatingly radiant smile that stretches his fleshy lips thin. His right hand rises to pet Curufinwë's face, while his left motions for him to undo his pants. “Make it quick.”

Curufinwë bends to undo the laces of his boots first, shucking them off sullenly, then rolls his pants down together with his underwear, and steps out of them. He stands naked under the limpid blueish light that fills the room, shivering a little from the cool air licking at his forge-heated body. 

Tyelcormo grasps his right wrist and yanks forcefully on it while stepping back. Curufinwë lunges forward but loses his footing, crashing on the packed-dirt floor with a yelp of pain. It's all he is allowed to utter, because Tyelcormo clamps both hands behind his head and squeezes his face against his own crotch. 

“Good, brother, here's _your_ prize. Take it. Enjoy it.”

Curufinwë grimaces from the pressure on his neck, but his nose is filled by the pungent scent of his brother's groin, made of leather and earth and sweat, and it pours ardour into his whole body. Tyelcormo slackens his hold to allow him to free his cock, but once he's done, his hands clasp the back of his head again, leaving him very little space to manoeuvre. All Curufinwë can do is worship his brother's half-hard shaft with his tongue, which he drags around the sides of his cock, then up and down, tracing bulging veins and lingering on the ridge of his cockhead, circling it slowly, the way he knows excites Tyelcormo the most. With the same care and relish he laps at his balls, curling his tongue around them, feeling their weight on it. He has to open his mouth wide to suck on them, but he does so – with some effort, and not a little enthusiasm. He suckles intently, lovingly on the right, eyes closed, slides his mouth to the left and worships that too, then lets each go with a loud smacking sound. He nips at the smooth skin of his brother's sack, catches it between his lips to pull gently on it.

Tyelcormo bites his lower lip, steeling himself to refrain from praising his brother. He hisses through his teeth when Curufinwë swirls his tongue back up along his length and over his slit with licks that are not shy or reluctant at all. Curufinwë may protest, pretend to resist and act coy, but once he has his brother's cock before him he invariably ends up indulging in his desire, _their_ desire. Tyelcormo tightens his hold, and rubs his cock and balls all over his brother's face, as if he could leave his scent on him and so mark him, then releases Curufinwë's nape and grips his ponytail instead.

Curufinwë immediately opens his mouth, his blush deepening as he realises how wanton, how eager that makes him look. He darts his eyes up and his discomfiture is met by Tyelcormo's pleased grin.

Tyelcormo sticks his cock down his throat, holding it there while he takes a deep, hearty breath, and pulls it out. Curufinwë remains with his mouth hanging open, panting, waiting. 

Contrary to his expectation, Tyelcormo doesn't come forward again, but tugs on his hair once. Curufinwë understands, and takes him into his mouth himself, lets him breach his throat and go even deeper. Tyelcormo isn't far from release, but forces himself to hold out just to see Curufinwë's lips stretched and sealed around his cock and hear the wet slurping sounds he makes as he fucks his throat on him, back and forth with brief pauses for breath, though he looks like he'd just as gladly choke on his brother's shaft. When his orgasm crests, he pulls out right after the first spurt of his seed has shot into Curufinwë's mouth, and sprays the rest over his face. It lands across Curufinwë's nose and dribbles down his chin, mixing with his spit and sweat. Tyelcormo lets go of his hair, leaving him panting, flushed and shamelessly erect. It's a glorious sight, and the temptation to just take him there and then almost overcomes him. 

“Well, this will be it, for now,” he says. Curufinwë makes a shrill sound, in confusion and disappointment, but when he looks up Tyelcormo is already at the door, a hand on the doorknob. “You will play your part when I catch you next time, won't you?”

Curufinwë knows very well what his brother alludes to. He lowers his gaze, groaning inwardly at the sight of his cock jutting out needily from his body. The door creaks open, leaving him no time to mull on Tyelcormo's request. 

“I will...play my role,” he hastens to say. 

The very request is a charade: both know he would always say yes, whether pressured into replying or not.

“Good.” Tyelcormo opens the door wide and steps out. “Be ready, little brother.”

*

Curufinwë spends the following days in a state of constant trepidation mixed with excitement. The first few days he's particularly alert, starting at the faintest sound, mistrustful of every shadow. The smithy is where he feels safest, and most at ease, at least whenever his father is there. He works with his father for as long as he can each day, and he tries to keep track of Tyelcormo's movements, too, doing his best to predict when his brother will strike. 

But nothing happens for weeks, and then his father leaves with the twins on a hunting trip. 

The smithy itself turns into a place full of distractions and memories that his father's presence normally keeps at bay. There's the work bench in the corner where Tyelcormo once fucked him so hard he passed out from it, and his knees hurt if he conjures the memory of taking Tyelcormo on all fours just next to the forge once when he hadn't even properly cooled it yet, and the stench from it filled his lungs while his brother rocked mercilessly into him. 

He leaves the smithy each day at the same hour after having thoroughly cleaned it, the empty tray with which a servant brought him a light dinner the only sign that someone was there at all. Each night, he crosses the equally still courtyard, immersed in his own thoughts and memories. He's always tired, and barely pays attention to his surroundings as he enters the house, but at the top of the stairs he stops. 

He peers right and left. The corridor is quiet as the rest of the house, and there is no trace of anybody having passed there recently. A little reassured, he veers right and heads towards his own room. He stops again halfway down the corridor, turns to look behind him. He's ten steps from his door when his brother makes his move. Tyelcormo's approach is too stealthy, and when he puts a hand over Curufinwë's mouth, it comes as an utter surprise. His other arm wraps around Curufinwë's waist and Curufinwë is half-lifted half-dragged back towards Tyelcormo's own room, and inside. Tyelcormo tosses him forcefully to the floor, before swirling around to lock the door. 

“What are you doing!” Curufinwë shouts, scrambling to his feet, though his body hurts all over as a result of the fall. 

Tyelcormo stomps over to him, deflects Curufinwë's attempt to hit him and backhands him hard across the face. He clamps the same hand over his mouth. “Don't be noisy, little brother.”

Curufinwë sputters against his palm, tossing his head from his side to free himself, but in vain: Tyelcormo lays his free hand over his chest and shoves him back until Curufinwë's knees hit the mattress and he topples down on it. Tyelcormo climbs over him, trapping him with his weight. 

Curufinwë thrashes under him, clawing at his thighs, but Tyelcormo is too heavy for him and doesn't even budge, doesn't even flinch under the assault of his hands. He calmly catches Curufinwë's wrists and pins them down over his head.

“Let me go!” Curufinwë demands, raising his voice again.

Tyelcormo returns his indignation with a carefree laugh. “There's nothing you can do, beloved brother. You are mine to do as I please.”

“Let me –”

“I can always go and tell Father your little secret, _Atarincë_...remember?” Tyelcormo purrs, and bends, his lips hovering just above Curufinwë's nose. “You will let me have my way with you.”

Warm breath washes down on Curufinwë's nose and cheeks, a wet mouth trails ticklishly over his skin. He squirms at every brush of Tyelcormo's lips in an attempt to hide the thrilling shivers the fleeting touches regale him with. Heat rises to his face, and shoots down to his groin, but when Tyelcormo attempts to kiss him, Curufinwë spits on his face.

His brother stills for an instant, then promptly retaliates by diving down and biting hard on his neck, as a wild animal intent on rending flesh. Curufinwë yelps and tries to burrow back into the mattress but Tyelcormo's teeth soon give way to his tongue and his brother licks a winding path up the curve of his jaw.

“You're so beautiful when you struggle, Atarincë.”

Curufinwë scowls, even as his cock strains inside his pants at the sultry way Tyelcormo hisses his mother-name. “I hate you.”

“No, you don't.” Tyelcormo holds him down with his full weight, crushing his arms into the mattress, and scoots back a little. He grinds their crotches together and chuckles to himself, evidently pleased by Curufinwë's furious glare, the downturned curve of his lips, his blush. He rocks his hips from side to side, feeling Curufinwë's cock rub into his own. “My my, you're so lewd, you get turned on getting manhandled, you like being roughed up.”

Curufinwë mutters a denial, but averts his gaze. 

His left wrist is released, but before he can realise that, Tyelcormo presses his left arm over his neck, bearing down on it until Curufinwë's face twists in acute discomfort. His eyes water, bulging out as all breath leaves him, and his mouth drops open in a desperate attempt to draw air in. He also arches off the bed, the thrill of being choked making his body quiver from head to toe in a way he cannot conceal.

When the pressure on his neck eases, he gasps, wheezing, then coughs, struggling to recover his breath. 

“Now you will get ready for me,” Tyelcormo says, releasing Curufinwë's other hand too, but keeping his arm on his neck. “Open your pants.”

Curufinwë's chest still heaves markedly, but he reaches down with trembling hands to do as his brother says. It takes a while. Tyelcormo threatens to choke him again whenever he fumbles, and once the laces come undone he yanks his pants and breeches down, leaving them bunched around his ankles. His left arm is still firmly lodged against Curufinwë's neck, but he reaches with his right for the vial of lubricant he had left on the nightstand.

“Prepare yourself,” he commands, thrusting the vial into Curufinwë's hands. 

“I can't reach my -” 

Tyelcormo's right hand drops between Curufinwë's legs, rubbing forcefully over his hole. 

“Oh you can, little brother, and you will. It's for your own good, you know. I will take you no matter how prepared you are.”

The whole process is awkward for Curufinwë, but he manages to pour a decent amount of oil from the vial onto the fingers of his right hand, and lowers them between his legs, slipping them under Tyelcormo's thighs. He smears the lubricant over his entrance, and pushes one finger in while staring up at Tyelcormo's beautiful cruel face.

After a time, Tyelcormo shifts so that he grips Curufinwë's neck with his fingers and can turn and lean back. “Stretch your muscles, let me look inside you.”

Curufinwë lowers his left hand too, and pulls his hole open. 

“Like that, good. It'll be so nice to be inside you.” 

“Please don't do it...I'll do anything else!” Curufinwë entreats, his voice small and pleading.

Tyelcormo shakes his head with a smug air. He takes hold of Curufinwë's wrist and jams his own fingers inside his ass. 

“Nothing you can do will satisfy me more than this, little brother.”

Curufinwë bites his lower lip in seeming resignation, but when Tyelcormo makes to get into position between his legs, he kicks one of his legs up, hitting his brother square in the groin. Tyelcormo hunches over in pain, and Curufinwë hastens to make his escape. He slips out of Tyelcormo's hold, but the moment he stands up he crumples to the floor, from both the dizziness caused by abiding breathlessness and his own pants impeding his movements. He curses under his breath and starts crawling towards the door, but before he can go even halfway across the room, Tyelcormo grabs him by the waist and hurls him towards the bed again. He takes a while to join him, but by the time Curufinwë makes to stand up again, Tyelcormo shoves him back on the bed. 

He ties his wrists to the headboard with the heavy hemp and nettle sashes he has retrieved, stretching his arms, spreading them wide, and makes the knot painfully tight. 

With a third, slimmer cord, he ties Curufinwë's cock. He winds it around his sack, so that it is pulled from his body, then tightens it between his balls too until each one stands out taut. 

He stands up again and without breaking eye contact walks to the wall opposite the bed and opens a large box which stands on a small table: the box where he keeps his hunting knives and daggers. All of them had been made by Curufinwë himself, or by their father. Some are short and slim enough that he can hide them in a special pocket in his boots. Others are long, and wide, almost as big as the swords Oromë had gifted the Quendi in Cuiviénen. The dagger Tyelcormo chooses without any hesitation is of medium length, but with a very large blade: the first one Curufinwë ever made for him. The hilt is intricately decorated and the engravings on it press into his palm as he goes back to the bed and kneels over his helpless brother again.

He brings the tip of the dagger to Curufinwë's cock, poking the slit. Curufinwë stiffens, his eyes narrowing then opening ever wider as Tyelcormo presses dangerously close to his sensitive skin. He tries to move away and stay absolutely still at the same time, but just before the dagger can pierce him, Tyelcormo pulls it away. He turns it over in his hands, and drags the flat of the blade against Curufinwë's shaft. The metal is cool, and makes Curufinwë quake with arousal enhanced by fear. His heart beats furiously in his chest, and a few drops of precome ooze from his slit. Tyelcormo clicks his tongue and drags the knife down over each of his balls, tilting it so that the blade barely grazes them, and Curufinwë can't hold back a groan. 

Tyelcormo chuckles. He abruptly swings the dagger down and cuts Curufinwë's pants and breeches in half at the crotch, making Curufinwë start then fall down on the bed with a hiss of pain due to the strain the abrupt movement puts on his arms and shoulders. With both garments out of the way, Tyelcormo moves forward again. He spreads his brother's legs as wide as possible and kneels so close to him that Curufinwë's bound balls are squeezed against his crotch. 

Sweat pearls on Curufinwë's forehead, and he follows the slithering of the blade up his belly with wide eyes. Tyelcormo smirks, slips the dagger under Curufinwë's shirt and drags it up in one smooth sweep to Curufinwë's neck. The sound of fabric ripping fills Curufinwë's ears, the brush of metal leaves a delicious tickling on his chest. Tyelcormo grazes the tip of the dagger along the whole curve of his neck, all the way to the underside of his chin. He holds it there, and Curufinwë is forced to tip his head back. 

“Ah, little brother, you are so so beautiful, so debauched. Look, you are shivering in delight.” He lays the dagger on Curufinwë's neck. He tries to shift even closer to him and leans forwards so that his cock presses on Curufinwë's length too, teasing him further. “Your cock is leaking. But you hurt me, so I won't let you come no matter how much you beg me.”

He turns the dagger again and plants the the tip between his nipples, which stand taut even without being touched. His left hand coils around Curufinwë's neck again, and he holds Curufinwë's gaze while gets into position. He drives into him without any care, keeping the dagger pointed to the middle of Curufinwë's chest.

“Don't make any sound.”

Curufinwë has to stifle a whimper. He isn't very stretched and the first few thrusts which pry him open send stabs of discomfort up his back. Tyelcormo must feel it, but he doesn't stop. His hand is firm and heavy as vise around his neck, making it difficult for him to breathe properly. Each of his fingers digs into his skin: he will very likely have the mark of Tyelcormo's hand around his neck for days. Another whimper threatens to leave his lips. Tyelcormo slams into him over and over, filling him. His vision blurs and his eyelids flutter shut. Deprived of sight, Tyelcormo's back and forth movement in him seems even more vigorous more unrelenting more delicious. Pleasure, keen and cloying, spreads from his loosened passage to his whole body. His lower body goes slack, surrendering to Tyelcormo's thrusts. His bound cock bounces up and down, uselessly, maddeningly hard.

After pounding into him for a long, exquisite while, Tyelcormo slows down and starts drawing the dagger all over his chest, hard enough to break the skin but not cut deep. Curufinwë writhes with it, his hips arching off the bed, and every time he falls right back onto his brother's thick hard cock.

He's lost in a haze of pleasure, until Tyelcormo nudges the tip of his shaft with the dagger once more. Curufinwë immediately opens his eyes, but Tyelcormo merely uses the dagger to gather his precome, bringing it to his lips for him to lick. Curufinwë holds Tyelcormo's gaze as he does, with just the faintest hint of hesitation, and it proves too much for his brother. He thrusts once, twice more then stiffens and bathes Curufinwë's passage with his seed.

The dagger slips from Tyelcormo's hold and ends propped up awkwardly against his skin, still cool. Tyelcormo drags his now free hand down Curufinwë's chest and tugs at his cock. He strokes it so deftly Curufinwë might come in spite of his sack being tied up, but that's not what Tyelcormo has in mind. Tyelcormo is true to his word, and squeezes his brother's shaft so hard that tears drip from Curufinwë's eyes and his erection withers completely.

Satisfied with that, Tyelcormo pulls both hands away from him and scoots forward until he's kneeling almost right over Curufinwë's face.

“Now I will release you, but you will have to do what I tell you to. No more disobedience, understood?”

The question is a charade, but a necessary one: it's the moment for Curufinwë to back out of their game if he's had enough. He rarely has. He nods, ostensibly meek. 

Tyelcormo acknowledges his choice with a small lopsided smile, soon smothered under a far more wolfish grin as he bends to undo the sashes.


End file.
